What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin;
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,
No naftiness offends his fkilful nofe;
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume, and eflence from a f----t:
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night.
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Roch----r I defpife for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himfelf alone the ill effects does find.
And fo like witches juftly fuffers shame,
Whofe harmless malice is fo much the fame.
Falfe are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, fo feldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks i
Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themfelves are mifchievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes every creature
A very Killig----w, without good nature.
For what a Beffus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For (there's the folly that's ftill mix'd with fear)
Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting fparks fome may their pleasures fay,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away :
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still
Falfely he falls into fome dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loofe :
A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in bafe injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under fo much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinder-woman's trade;
Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in afhes and in mire :
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deferve no comments here;
Where one poor thought, fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulnefs must atone.
How vain a thing is man, and how unwife E'en he, who would himself the most despise! 1, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't fee.
While the world's nonfenfe is fo fharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own;
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatires to fet up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault,
E'en with my master, who first satire taught;
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward;
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time:
'Tis juft that I fhould to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
On her return from SCOTLAND in the Year 1682.
HEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty, and the court of love,
The Mufes droop'd, with their forfaken arts,
And the fad Cupids broke their useless darts:
Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turn'd,
Like Eden's face, when banifh'd man it mourn'd.
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great fupporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the fun and he had loft their way.
But now th' illuftrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings ev'ry grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, tho' they rais'd no storm,
Foreflow'd her paffage, to behold her form.
Some cry'd, A Venus; fome, A Thetis, past;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And envy did but look on her, and dy'd.
Whate'er we fuffer'd from our fullen fate,
Her fight is purchas'd at an eafy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were fet;
But this one mighty fum has clear'd the debt:
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